They must’ve received many comforting words and lovely cards… but death, it sits with them. It is all-consuming and inky – it fills up their lungs with black ink. Comfort can only venture to the edges of death – it cannot go in.

I imagine sitting with the families, shrouded in an atmosphere of death; and there are no chubby angels dancing around the prairie with golden lights. No warm letters that can penetrate the cold.

There is no serene music playing, no harpist singing, sadly, in the background.

There are no roses.

It is blackness and endless pain – a need to escape the suffocating loss of a precious life. The ink mounts. There is a dead end on the road, and people softly encourage you to turn and walk back to life, but you cannot move, not now. There is nothing that holds you together, not at this moment. There is no soft wind blowing. There is no beautiful sunset that brings understanding. Or peaceful skies that bring blessing.

There are only tears and endless heartache that will never heal. There are only the thorns of roses, and they cut.